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“Your housemaid’s hands are too rough,” Miss Bowles complained.

Clara didn’t bother to respond. She wouldn’t apologize. Her hands had been made more callused than they’d ever been when she lived a finer life, but she was in no way being too rough with Miss Bowles.

“What style would you like this evening, Miss Bowles?”

The woman sighed, then motioned to a nearby fashion plate. “I was to have Margaret attempt this before she went ahead and burnt herself, foolish creature. I suppose I shall have to find a more simple feature for you to do.”

“I can do this one,” Clara said confidently.

Miss Bowles smiled humorously in the mirror. “Claire, do not boast. One cannot⁠—”

“I can.”

Miss Bowles looked affronted at being interrupted, her jaw taut before she sat back with a look that said, “Very well. Go ahead and try.”

Clara didn’t say another word, working swiftly and deftly to do the hairstyle she’d accomplished on Miss Sterling’s hair only two days before—though Miss Bowles’s had obviously not taken notice.

When Clara finished, she stood back without a word, only a subtle look of triumph.

“Hmm,” Miss Bowles mused. “I suppose it looks slightly similar. But it does appear a bit askew. Alas, we have no time to fix it.”

Askew. The hairstyle was flawless.

She hoped Mr. Cole didn’t approve of it.

“Come. Bring me my red dress. It is needed this evening.”

Clara saw the look of frustration in her eyes, but again she remained silent.

“He’ll be sorry,” Miss Bowles mumbled as Clara secured the dress at the back, the gown revealing, low, and stunning. “Teach him to cross me. Hateful man that he is.”

Clara’s stomach tightened. She did not think it wise to attempt a conversation with the woman, but then, her intrigue had already won.

“Who is hateful, Miss Bowles?”

Miss Bowles looked surprised, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been speaking aloud, then a dark frown crossed her features. “Mr. Cole. The wicked man had his way with me then thought he could dispose of me. He’ll be sorry. He’ll regret ever rejecting me when I wear this before him.”

Clara secured the scarlet ribbon around Miss Bowles’s waist without a response, though her mind was racing. Mr. Cole. He’d rejected Miss Bowles and the woman had finally gotten the picture.

And yet, she was still attempting to make him envious by wearing this revealing gown?

“Has there been talk of him downstairs?” Miss Bowles asked, pinching her cheeks in the mirror.

“None that I have heard, Miss Bowles.”

“You’re as useless as Margaret. She only delivered one bit of useful information before she had to leave.”

Miss Bowles dabbed rouge on her lips as Clara noticed a spare curl falling from the woman’s hair. Doing her duty, she reached forward with another pin, securing it in place.

“Apparently,” Miss Bowles continued, “Mr. Cole had fallen for someone else at the house party. He has kissed every woman in England and now chooses to fall in love.”

Clara moved another pin forward at that same moment and dug too far into Miss Bowles’s hair.

The woman gasped, then struck Clara’s hand. “You fool,” she cried out. “You’ve hurt me.”

Clara froze, her skin stinging. She had a mind to strike the woman right back. How dare she treat her in such a manner. Did she do the same to Margaret?

Miss Bowles dabbed at her head with her fingers. “You’ve drawn blood, haven’t you?”